


Chasing Shadows

by innocentmagic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Marauders' Era, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-18 20:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11298138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innocentmagic/pseuds/innocentmagic
Summary: Hermione is forced back in time, where her nightmares taunt her about a future she cannot remember. A Marauders AU in which a major JK character dies in Chapter 1 and only really resurfaces in the epilogue. No pairings happen simultaneously.





	1. Run

**Chapter One**

_May 18th 2001_

* * *

Running. Always running.

"Harry! Look out!"

And fire. The fire that burned relentlessly, devoured whole villages in its anger. Fire that raged from the wands of cruel, vindictive men; that snaked through grass, clung to every structure it hit like vines of the sharpest roses. It consumed and it destroyed and -

"Harry!"

Her voice was growing hoarse from the crying.

First, she had cried a Battle Cry. Strong, fierce Hermione: the brains of the Golden Trio. How could she not hold that confidence inside, that they were the Good and so they would win? They would fight for the Light, make their sacrifice, but they would  _win_ and that would be all that mattered.

But then she had cried for them to just  _look out!_ A curse from behind, or falling masonry, or a dark creature pouncing– the attacks came from all angles and no one had warned her that they would be this unprepared.

It was carnage.

So then she had cried out of grief. Not for long – there was never time to breathe these days, let alone mourn every lost soul – but she had holed herself into the corner of their tent for just the one night. One night to remember the faces of every Hogwarts student caught in the crossfire. Every Weasley cut down in the Burrow Massacre. Just the one night.

Harry had sat beside her, silent, letting her claw into his side and lose herself in the softness of his t-shirt. He had been there to help keep her from toppling over the cliff edge, lost to the insanity that lurked behind her eyes. Always her sounding board, her link to reality.

And he always had been; without him, where was the hope that they would still win? Where was the hope that she might one day feel... something? He soothed the numbness, that one night, with calm hands on her back and face set in determination. Her brother in all but blood. Her brave, brave,  _foolish_ brother.

"Harry, come on!"

There were only a handful of the old Order left fighting now. They were the last stand, marching on for all they believed in, a smouldering need for the losses to be worth it. It could all be okay if the death and the destruction could just mean something. Anything. Just let it mean  _something_.

And yet –

"No! Nonononono," she howled. "No, no Harry!"

The smoke had appeared from nowhere. It choked the air, blinded them against the onslaught. The attackers were everywhere and nowhere all at once. One by one, they appeared from the shadows, huge hulking figures in pointed hoods, silhouettes against the hazy white of the burning air around them.

Somewhere to her right a wall had caved in. The crash of rock on rock disorientated her a second time but then – yes, no, was it-?

She found him sprawled on a rare patch of grass, arm cocked at a gruesome angle.

"Hermione," choked Harry, his voice so faint it gave her chills. "Run. Please run."

His leg was... it was hard to tell, exactly. The onslaught had thrown everything into disarray and she clung to the hope that this was all in her head. That Harry hadn't been jammed into the pavement by a particularly vicious chunk of masonry. That the darker soil beneath him wasn't tarred in his blood.

She shook her head, swallowing down a sob. "Not without you." And she crouched in closer, close enough that he could see nothing but her eyes as she ran a hand through his hair.

The flames were getting closer, so close now she felt the air thick and heavy pressing down on them. Panicked, she tried to cover her nose with her shirt but she had seen too many battles and not enough water. She retched at the metallic tang from her collar.

Dark bodies marched forward, wands raised, curses tearing forward to clear a path through to the Boy-Who-Lived. Hermione's heartbeat echoed around her ears, a pulsating drum-beat drowning out the snarl of fire catching on the threads of the rest of their ragged crew.

Then Harry was pushing something into her hand. The trinket was cool against the scraped flesh of her palm. Soft silk like a balm; the heavy feel of something precious and metal and no, she wasn't letting Harry away with this. Not now. Not yet.

"I'm not leaving you," she scolded, but it came out more fearful than anything. Hermione fell back on her heels to catch her breath, letting go.

Her stomach turned as she got another look at Harry. In just those few minutes, his skin had taken on a sickly grey tone, marred with blood splatters from wounds reopened in the downpour.

It was his eyes that frightened her the most though. His usual glimmer was gone; – too quickly. Even the look of panic was sinking away, replaced with defeat.

Harry groaned. Coughed. Groaned once more, quieter now.

Thunder cracked the sky above them, strong and so loud it must have cleaved the world in two.

"Love you, 'Mione."

The sky blazed white for a single moment, then red, then perhaps pain, then black.

A whirlwind caught, hurling debris high into the air. Hermione thought she might have seen bodies within the storm, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't sure of anything just then.

More colours. Everywhere a new shade, dark and yet dazzling all at once. The gale whipping fast and hard around their cowering forms. Hermione couldn't get her bearings, could barely feel the bauble digging into her hand.

In the confusion, she grasped onto what she knew. Harry was gone; that she could feel in the emptiness in her heart. Her best friend, her hero, her only family – it was gone. And so was any chance they had in this godforsaken war.

Another swirl, this time a striking gold against a backdrop of fire. And was that -? Flashes of green – an unmistakeable green. At what? Her? Harry was dead. She was as good as. The storm would see to that if the fire didn't get her first. Shooting at a walking corpse was just absurd.

This was terror far greater than that she'd been living through since the war had began. This was a caricature of the nightmares of every little girl, a world tipped on its head and throwing a tantrum for it, shrill and incessant and  _just make it stop!_ Hermione wanted to scream.

But she didn't. Because the Death Eaters were shooting at her.  _Her_. The last one standing – albeit in a field of the corpses of her friends and drenched in the blood of her brother. Her.

And they kept missing.

So she laughed.

The flames lapped at her toes. The wind teased at her hair. And she just laughed.

Arms wide, head tilted to the sky, she greeted each boom of thunder with the same harsh crow of mirth because this couldn't be happening, couldn't be real.

A blaze of green shot past her calf, the heat of it stirring something deep in her abdomen.

The storm gathered itself, preparing for its final cry. As one, the shadows raised their wands toward her.

From somewhere far far away, a reedy voice cried, "The last Potter will not die!"

And then Hermione Granger was no more.

 


	2. Fall

**Chapter Two**

_Date Unknown_

* * *

Charlus Potter had, for once, enjoyed a very relaxing evening. No work, no tantrums from his son. He didn't even need to worry about Dorea (or all that he loved his wife, the gnawing in his gut when she was on duty took the shine off).

No, better for her to be safely gossiping with Augusta over scones and elf-made wine.

Snuffing out his bedside candle, Charlus – usually not a man for frivolity – allowed himself a satisfied smile. A rare few hours' peace indeed, he thought. Untroubled. Restful. It had been quite a lovely night and he couldn't have asked for anything more of his day off.

Really, he probably should have expected the thunderous crack that woke him a mere two hours later.

"What the-?"

In the dark, Charlus groped about for his spectacles.

The sky flared white – just for a moment – and the sky rumbled a second time and he grew concerned. That sound wasn't natural, he was sure of it; there was something deeper, something  _magical_ at play.

"Miffy!" he called. A smaller, familiar snap followed a dainty elf's apparition.

"Master Potter?" asked the elf, eyes wide.

Charlus paused to slip into his nightgown and a pair of shoes. Then: "What in the blazes is going on outside?"

The elf shook its head, neat little navy cap slipping to one side as it did. "Miffy checks the wards, Master Potter, but they is not being broken," it said.

Well that was peculiar.

A third boom shook the very foundations of the manor and a fierce gale rattled the windows menacingly. Charlus frowned; he could taste the magic on the air but with no apparent explanation... something was very, very wrong.

Further down the hall, over the wail of the wind, he could hear the first whimpers of a startled James.

"Miffy," he ordered. "See to James for me please."

Nodding again – the cap flying back to its rightful place on the elf's knobbly head – Miffy disappeared. The gale died down, just slightly, but then another surge of light outside the window. First white, then red.

Wand in hand, Charlus made his way to the front door. Peering through the curtains of the front reception, there didn't  _appear_ to be anything amiss, but you could never be too careful. What was it that new kid was always muttering?  _Constant vigilance?_

He stepped back from the curtain, puzzled.

Then a thud. The unmistakable crunch of bone hitting ground from a great height. He would know, after three years of Quidditch at Hogwarts. Charlus reached again for the curtain. Before he could take another look into the garden, he heard a whimper. He froze.

James? No, couldn't be. Miffy was taking care of him; he'd surely be tucked safely under the covers, listening to a squeaky rendition of Babbity Rabbity by now.

Dorea? Charlus wasn't sure that woman had ever whimpered in her life. She'd been a Black even through childbirth. Formidable, he called her. And besides, this was a child's cry, no doubt about it.

Nothing for it now. He'd run out the door no sooner than the word 'child' had entered his thoughts.

"Oh by Merlin!"

He hadn't expected this.

A little girl – she couldn't be any older than James, surely? – sprawled out on the patio, caked in dark, dried blood. Scars littered her body, or what little of it he could see at least. Little ones, almost healed. Huge gaping ones, clearly fresh.

The girl moaned softly. He could see, even in the dim light of the lanterns by the door, her tiny fist clenching. The other fist sat uselessly at the end of a mangled arm.

Charlus dropped to his knees by her head, lifting away the cloak that covered her face. A pair of large, dark eyes greeted him. Terrified eyes. Terrified eyes framed with tears that refused to fall. Terrified,  _empty_ eyes.

"My dear, it's okay ittle one," Charlus whispered. One hand cupped the girl's head through a bushy mane his own mother would have been proud of, while the other scanned for injuries – the only healing spell he knew. Where was Dorea when you needed her?

His wand vibrated when the scan completed.

The girl flinched, startled.

"Hush, little one," he soothed. "It'll all be okay, you'll see."

The look of fear never left her eyes, but it was joined by an equal measure of defiance. She breathed deeply – quaking with the effort – and croaked something unintelligible.

The little girl frowned. Winced. Frowned more deeply. Still Charlus held her with a steady hand.

Finally, the girl was ready to try again.

"Hah...ree?"

And then she fainted.

_Running. Always running._

_And fire. Fire that burned relentlessly. Fire that raged from wands of cruel men, consuming, destroying._

_Smoke appearing from nowhere._

_Huge hulking figures in pointed hoods, silhouetted against the burning air._

_Rocks caved in and Harry – oh, Harry!_

_They're coming for you, Hermione. The spells. The darkness. Watch out –_

The little girl awoke suddenly, choking on the air and the fear that consumed her.

The first thing she noticed was that it was no longer dark. In fact, the world around her, she noticed curiously, was very bright. A stark white that hurt to look at. She tried to blink it away, but to no avail.

Why  _was_ the world so bright? It had been night-time before, she was sure it had. And there had been a searing pain in her side and in her arm – all over really – like someone had dropped a lit match in her stomach. Where had it gone? And -

Harry?

She tried to sit up, tried to look around, to find... wait, who was she looking for? Her mind was too cloudy, everything was too muddled. What was she even doing here? Why wasn't it night-time?

She couldn't help it. First she sniffled, just once, quietly. Then, when that didn't make her feel any better, when the panic of not understanding didn't ease, she sniffled again.

Soon, the little girl, lost and confused, started to sob.


	3. Face

**Chapter Three**

_Date Unknown_

* * *

When the little girl awoke for a second time, it was to that same crushing terror that had clasped around her so tightly before. She could feel the stickiness of the pillow under her neck, the clamminess of her hands by her sides. There was a pulsating pressure at the back of her head that made her nauseous and she moaned softly.

"Hush, child," a voice soothed. "You are safe now."

A hand brushed away the loose hairs from her damp forehead.

Vaguely, the girl remembered a much deeper voice – gruffer, like a bear – comforting her in much the same way some time in the past.

Or had that all been a part of the Horror World?

The girl trembled as images from her nightmares came to the surface. Fire and screaming and figures rising from shadows and a boy she couldn't find the name of. She feared closing her eyes. Feared losing herself in the Horror World forever. And the gruffer voice hadn't  _seemed_ dangerous, but – oh – nothing was making sense right now.

She took a deep breath, or, she tried to. Something wasn't right. Why couldn't she-?

The girl's eyes widened, panicked. The deep breath wouldn't come. Nothing was coming. Her little heart raced, battering at her rib cage in its frustration. But her throat constricted and there were black dots dancing across her vision and the world – what little of it she could see, white tile upon white tile upon white tile – began to spin.

A face came into view. A kind looking face, one with dark eyes framed either side by tiny wrinkles like claws and a mouth done in rouge. The Face didn't spin. The little girl liked that, she decided.

"Breathe, sweet girl," said the Face.

It seemed the Face wanted to show the girl how to do it, too, which made the child scowl. What a silly notion. Of course she knew  _how_ to breathe, the girl thought indignantly. Didn't the Face understand it was simply that she  _couldn't_?

_See_ , she wanted to say, I know what I'm meant to be doing. In, out. In, out. In, out. See?

And just like that, the spots faded away and her lungs flooded and the girl decided that the Face might think she was stupid but she wasn't so there.

The Face just smiled, then turned away a moment.

"Augusta, do make yourself useful and call us in a Healer, would you please?"

The little girl smiled – a small one, too watery and hesitant to really label it as such – when the Face's attention swung straight back to her. It's a lovely thing to have the attention of a Face so gentle and lovely as her's.

"You gave my husband quite a shock the other night, you know," the Face sighed. "And you've been through such an ordeal. But you're here now. You're safe."

They stayed still for a while, the girl and her Face, each focused on steady breathing and clear minds and studying the other's expressions. The little girl's eyebrows scrunched in by her nose as she tried to count the number of freckles on her Face.

Playful, the Face mimicked the girl, and the girl laughed a croaky sort of laugh that startled them both.

All that time, a hand never stopped caressing the hair on the girl's brow.

Finally, there came a cough at the door and the clacking of an extra pair of boots against the floor.

"Mrs Potter," someone greeted loudly. A funny feeling twisted the little girl's gut. "Mrs Longbottom tells me our charge is awake?"

The Face turned away and the mattress rattled slightly as its body made to stand.

Suddenly lonely, the little girl turned her attention to counting the chips in the ceiling tiles instead. One. Two. Three. A scratchy voice was asking if the charge had been responsive. Six. Seven. Was the wake natural? Thirteen. Fourteen.

What number came next, she wondered. Oh,  _oh!_ Fifteen! Fifteen chips.

Maybe there were more to count if she were to turn her head?

But then a man stood where her Face had been, looking not nearly as nice. His moustache obscured half his nose, full of prickly bristles more suited to a fox. It twitched unpleasantly when he spoke. Plus there was a smidge by his chin. She badly wanted her Face back.

He waved his wand over her wordlessly, avoiding her eyes, stopping every so often to note something on a piece of parchment in his pocket. Eventually – just as the girl became impatient and began to fidget – he straightened up to address her.

"I'm Healer Deverill," the man introduced himself. "And who might you be?"

The little girl opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. "I'm –" The answer died in her throat. "I'm –" she tried again.

What did he want her to say? She cast about her mind desperately for some clue; everyone knew who they were, after all. Why would she be different? It had to be somewhere...

But it wasn't. She couldn't find it, not anywhere, not even in the deepest recesses of her mind filled with locked doors and signs warning not to enter.

Her lip quivered. Her fist tightened. The candles on the walls flickered despite the still air; the table in the corner shook violently where it stood enough to almost topple the empty vase. The girl screwed her eyes shut tight, biting her lip.

"'er," she stuttered. "'er, meh-"

Shadows danced spitefully against the stark white walls as the flames grew larger. The table legs pounded into the floor harder still.

"Meh... meh-" but it was no use.

Shaking her head, the little girl gave in. There was no name. There wasn't, there wasn't  _anything_. All she knew was the fear and the running and the green eyes that followed her through each nightmare. It was all she had; she didn't have a name.

She coughed, a hacking cough too large for her tiny body, and made to sit up.

Two arms wrapped around her, rubbed her back tenderly.

"It's okay, sweet girl," whispered a voice. Her Face. "It's okay. You just concentrate on getting better. We'll find your name. Or maybe a shiny new one, hmm? Now wouldn't that be lovely."

She prattled on, holding the little girl close to her chest so that all the child could smell was the jasmine and mint of her perfume and all she could see were soft woollen robes. By the door, Augusta was looking disapproving. The Healer, Merlin bless him, didn't seem to know what to do next.

When Mrs Potter was convinced the girl had fallen back into slumber, she asked, "How long until we can take her home?"

"Home?" said Deverill.

"Home," Mrs Potter repeated, tone perfectly business-like despite the sleeping child in her arms. "I assume now that you've collected her vitals that there's a protocol to follow to discharge her into my care?"

"Well, I-"

Mrs Potter continued, "She is, after all, only a child. And a child of Potter blood at that. It would be unseemly for her to have to stay in hospital away from family for any longer than necessary."

Deverill left the room, muttering about Pureblood proprieties and seeing what he could do.

As Mrs Potter tucked the sleeping girl under the starched white bed sheets, Augusta took her chance.

"Dorea..." she started, frowning.

"Don't 'Dorea' me, Auggie," said Mrs Potter. "You sound like my mother."

Augusta's expression softened. "Not as much as you did, chastising the poor Healer," she teased.

"Yes, well." Dorea had the grace to look sheepish. "Maybe I went a tad overboard."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" asked Augusta.

Dorea smiled. "She had the ring, Auggie. A genuine Potter ring. Do you know how few-? And the wards! She's family, no other explanation."

Augusta didn't appear convinced.

"And what of Dumbledore's warning? War again on the continent; dark forces rising in Britain?"

"You think they'd send a six year old girl as, what, a trap?"

The older woman shrugged. "If Dumbledore says-"

"Dumbledore, my arse," scoffed Dorea. "This is Potter business and she is a Potter girl." She paused a moment to take another look at the child – all that hair; they'd have to do something about that. "She's my girl."

 


End file.
